On the Brink

by Alison Ingleby et al.

  It takes us most of the morning to find out the cause of the problem. It’s actually a combination of things: a broken screw, a burnt-out chip, and a cut-off lever locked half in place. That’s the hardest thing to fix as, for some odd reason, it’s located right at the back of the control box. Even with my skinny arms and small fingers, I’m only just able to find it and work it loose.

  “This lever’s busted. We got a replacement?”

  Daniels sorts through the box of spare parts and shakes his head. “Can you turn it off using a driver? I’ll ask the super for a spare lever before we start testing.”

  I nod in reply and am about to squeeze in underneath the control box when I spot a group of people approaching. There are four tall, broad-shouldered men and a slim blonde woman. All of them are dressed in the brightly colored suits Insiders like to wear. Baines fawns over them, as if they have direct control of his next paycheck.

  Pass us by. Pass us by . . .

  When footsteps come to a halt behind me, I stifle a groan, pulling back from the machine.

  “Managed to find the source of the problem yet, boys?” Baines sounds almost jovial, putting on an act for the visitors. I wonder who they are.

  “We think so, sir,” Daniels replies. “We’ve managed to fix the issue. We just need a—”

  “Good work!” Baines grins at the visitors. They look sour-faced, as if they’ve popped a sweet into their mouths only to suck it and realize it’s a lemon. The smile falls from the supervisor’s face and he scowls at us. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s see how she runs.”

  “But, sir—”

  “You said you’d fixed it, Daniels. Proof is in the pudding, eh? Or, in this case, in the loaf.” Baines shouts to one of the workers farther down the line to switch the main power on.

  “Is the cut-off switch on?” Daniels asks me in a low voice.

  I give a slight nod, the broken handle still clutched in my hand.

  “Well, at least it should work then.”

  We replace the front of the control panel, then Daniels starts up the section of the production line in front of us. I hold my breath as the machinery whirls and clanks, almost expecting a screech of torn metal or for it to grind to a halt.

  But neither of those things happens.

  “There you go,” Baines says, beaming. “Good as n—”

  A scream cuts off his words. Not the clash of metal against metal, or even the cry of a welder who’s been careless with his torch. It’s the scream of a man fighting for his life.

  My head jerks up, the hood falling back off my head. Instinctively, I grab for it, but my hand freezes halfway to pulling it back up. The conveyor belt above us is moving, and Jason is moving with it.

  He must have been working on it when we started the machine and the hood of his overalls has got caught in the conveyor. He claws at his neck, trying to throw his weight forward to tear the hood off, but these overalls are designed to last, and he only succeeds in choking himself further. My eyes follow the line of the conveyor belt to where it drops into the huge mixing bowl. The tops of the spinning blades are a blur of movement.

  Daniels slams his hand on the stop button.

  Nothing happens.

  He curses and hits it harder, but it makes no difference.

  The electronics must be screwed. That’s why the cut-off lever was locked in place. They must have had to use it to stop the machine.

  I look at Daniels, my horror mirrored in his eyes.

  “The cut-off . . .” he whispers.

  I look down at the microdriver in one hand and the broken lever in the other, then back up at the conveyor belt. Jason’s face is red, his eyes bulging as he frantically struggles for air. He knows what will happen if he gets carried over into that bowl.

  I duck under the control box, my arm snaking between metal struts and tubes, cursing the bulky clothing that impedes my movement. I’m working blind as I fumble for the slot with the tip of the microdiver, my hand twisted awkwardly in the confined space. Sweat trickles down my neck. The microdriver scratches along the metal casing.

  Jason’s scream fades.

  I run my finger along the back of the control box. My skin catches on a jagged piece of metal. Behind it, there’s a thin slot.

  Bingo.

  I slot the tip of the microdriver in and turn it.

  It sticks.

  I curse under my breath and wiggle around, trying to find some way of bringing my other hand up to the handle of the microdriver. My back presses up against the metal above me, twisting my neck awkwardly to one side, but I just about manage to bring my left hand up to join my right. With all the force I can muster, I twist the microdriver hard to the right.

  The control box vibrates against my cheek, then everything stops.

  A deathly silence descends. I stay in my awkward position, not wanting to extract myself and find that I was too late. Jason’s smiling face floats into my mind.

  Feet sound on metal steps, running above me to the conveyor belt. Still, the silence weighs heavy.

  There’s a grunt from somewhere above, then a pat on my hip. “He’s all right. You were just in time.”

  I close my eyes, leaning into the machine as adrenaline rushes from my body, leaving my legs weak. Slowly, I extract myself and turn to face Daniels.

  Instead, I come face-to-face with Baines.

  I had almost forgotten he was there, along with the visitors behind him. He takes in my face—not the lined, bearded face of a man, but that of a young woman—and the relief in his eyes turns to anger.

  His hand is partly outstretched, perhaps intending to pat me on the shoulder or give me a gruff “well done” for having saved Jason’s life, but he lets it fall to his side.

  My fingers fumble on my hood, trying to pull it back up over my face, but Baines grabs my hand, twisting it hard. Pain blossoms in my wrist as I sink to the concrete floor in front of him

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure what I can say that won’t make the situation worse.

  Baines grabs my right arm and holds it up, roughly pulling back the layers of clothing to reveal the microchip encased in its rubber strap around my forearm. One of the visitors gasps, and I glance up to find their eyes fixed on my arm. Their expressions register shock and disgust. Except for the blonde woman, who just looks thoughtful.

  “I thought it was too good to be true that his hand had healed that quickly.” Baines is incandescent with rage, probably not so much from the fact that I tricked him, but from the fact that all these important people are here to witness his mistake. I’ve made him look like a fool. The thought sends a shudder through my body.

  I wonder how long it will take for the Metz to arrive. If I’ll be given a chance to state my case, or if they’ll just drag me straight off to the Farms. I’ve heard the rumors. It’s supposed to be a kind of prison where you can work off your crimes by contributing to society. Except no one ever comes back.

  Will they bring Pa here first? He’ll try and take the blame, I know he will, but I won’t let him. I wish there were some way I could warn him so he could get away before they come for him.

  I’m sorry, Pa.

  A hand grips the front of my overalls, dragging me up off the floor. They begin to slip over my head, and I fight for breath as the stench of rotten cabbage washes over me.

  “I asked you a question, girl.”

  He lets go, and I crash back to the floor, pain shooting from my knees. My stomach is twisted in knots and, for the first time in my life, I find myself speechless.

  “I . . .” I try to swallow, but my mouth’s so dry, it sends me into a fit of coughing.

  “Give the girl some water,” the woman says. Her voice is light and musical.

  Baines kicks me in the ribs instead. “Speak up.”

  “The medic said Pa’s hand would be healed in two weeks, but you’d have given him the sack if he hadn’t come back to wo
rk on Monday. So I took his place. I can do the work just as well as him. Ask anyone!”

  “She’s right, boss,” Daniels says to my right. I steal a glance at him, wondering why he’d stick his neck out for me. His face is flushed as his eyes dart around the room. “She figured out what was wrong with this thing before I could. And she saved Colton . . .” His voice trails off as Baines glowers at him.

  “We do not have women working in this factory.” He waves to a guard standing at the end of the row. “Take this girl away and call the Metz. Let me know when they arrive.”

  He glares at the nearby workers and raises his voice. “Back to work! These machines won’t fix themselves.” He begins to usher the visitors farther down the production line.

  The guard forces my arms behind my back as I struggle to my feet, but as we turn to leave, I catch the blonde woman looking back at me over her shoulder, a curious expression on her face.

  A muffled choking sound draws my eyes upward. Jason is standing at the top of the steps, his bloodied hands clutching the metal rail, as if it’s the only thing holding him up. Our eyes meet.

  “Sorry,” he mouths silently.

  Chapter 8

  Two guards pull me roughly down a long corridor and into a small room furnished with a desk, a chair, and some locked cabinets. I guess it to be Baines’s office. One of them stays with me while the other disappears from the room. He returns five minutes later and gives his partner a silent nod.

  I move to sit down, but one of them grabs my shoulder, clearly indicating that I’m to stay standing. There’s not much in the room to draw my attention or distract me from the negative thoughts racing through my mind. The image of the man kneeling in front of the East Gate, the black collar around his neck, fills my head.

  He had only tried to get through the gate. A minor offense compared to stealing a person’s chip.

  Nausea tightens my gut as I try to remember everything I’ve ever heard about the government Farms. The rumors range from starvation and manual labor to torture and human experimentation.

  Surely death is better than that.

  There’s no window in the office, and the only door is the one I came in through. I try to calculate if I can get through it and slam it shut behind me before the guards can react. The odds of me escaping without being shot are pretty slim, but it’s better than waiting for the Metz to arrive.

  I shift slightly, angling my body so I’m in a position to run. One of the guards grunts, but doesn’t move.

  Ten more breaths. I count them down.

  Three. Two. One.

  I lunge toward the door, my hand closing on the handle just as it begins to open in front of me. I yank the handle and pivot on my back foot, intending to barrel past whoever’s on the other side.

  I slam straight into a black-armored giant.

  It’s like bouncing off a brick wall. I stumble over my own feet, falling to the floor. Stars dance in front of my eyes. I raise my hand to my nose and it comes away wet and bloody.

  Then the guards are on me, pinning me down. One of them swipes at me, catching my cheek with the studs on the back of his glove. Blood spills over my lips, hot and metallic on my tongue. I try to squirm out of their grasp, but they’re too strong. The bigger of the two places his knee on my chest and transfers his weight slowly until I’m gasping for air.

  Heavy footsteps enter the room. “This is the criminal.”

  The three of us freeze at the gravelly, monotone voice. The weight on my chest lifts and the two men drag me to my feet. They look at each other, unsure of what to do next.

  Two Metz officers block the doorway. The sight of the black collars hanging from their belts sends a rod of white-hot fear lancing through my body, rooting my feet to the floor. My pulse begins to race, a wave of dizziness washing over me.

  Fast, light footsteps sound outside and Baines appears, barely visible behind the officers’ bulk. The Metz part to let him through. He’s panting, his cheeks tinged pink from exertion.

  He takes in the scene in front of him, then walks up to me and slaps me hard across the face. I spit in response, speckling his overalls with blood. The anger in his eyes turns to fury.

  “You bit—”

  “Excuse the interruption, Baines.”

  The woman with the blonde hair and teal trouser suit stands in the doorway. A small smile plays at her lips. Her face is angular and sharp, and a cold shiver runs down my spine as her gaze lingers on me.

  Baines wheels around. “Mrs. Chamberlain. I . . .” His face flushes red. “If you’ll just step outside and give me a minute, I’ll be right with you.”

  The woman steps into the room, slipping past the Metz officers like a cat weaving through railings. “Actually, I wanted to speak to you about this young lady.”

  My mouth falls open. Young lady?

  Baines looks equally perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  She gives a tick of annoyance. “I’m in need of a new apprentice machinist at my factory. In particular, I want a woman, and there aren’t many around with the right skills.”

  “You want a woman?”

  “Yes, Baines. It’s part of our new equality policy.” She lets the words hang in the air.

  There’s an undercurrent between them that I don’t quite understand, but Baines flushes and ducks his head. I wonder who this woman is. Someone important, I’m sure.

  Mrs. Chamberlain turns to me. “Do you know where the government food factory is?”

  I nod.

  “Report there at eight am on Monday. With your own chip. After an initial four-week training period, you will be paid two hundred credits a week. I trust that is satisfactory.”

  My mouth hangs open, my brain trying to process what I’m hearing.

  Mrs. Chamberlain’s lips twitch. She knows full well that two hundred credits a week is a fortune for an Outsider. Twice what Pa earns in a month.

  But there’s something in the way her eyes slide over me, refusing to meet my gaze, that makes me think her offer isn’t quite all it seems.

  Is this a trick?

  “Y-you mean I’m not going to get arrested?”

  The Metz officers had been silent, but now one of them steps forward and places a heavy hand on my shoulder. I feel my bones crunch under its grip and try not to wince in pain.

  “This citizen has taken another’s chip. That is a criminal offense. She will come with us.”

  Tension hangs in the air like a brittle twig too easily snapped.

  “Ah, of course,” Mrs. Chamberlain says finally. “I have a message from your commander.” She runs a finger delicately over the comm band on her wrist. I don’t hear anything, but the officer next to her tilts its head to one side, as if receiving a communication into its helmet. It nods once. The hand on my shoulder releases its grip.

  “That’s settled then.” She waves a perfectly manicured hand. “You’ll have our report next week, Baines.”

  “Y-y-yes, Mrs. Chamberlain.” But the woman has already gone, the door swishing closed behind her.

  The two Metz officers follow silently, and Baines dismisses the guards with a flick of his wrist.

  What just happened?

  Baines walks behind the desk and glares at me. “Well? You heard her.”

  I move my mouth, trying to find words. “I . . . I’m free to go?”

  “Yes.” He picks up an empty coffee mug from the table and slams it down with unnecessary force.

  Laughter bubbles up inside me and I have to clamp my mouth shut to hold it in. I can’t become hysterical. Not now.

  I’m free to go.

  Free.

  And l even have a job. No more cleaning toilets!

  “Go!”

  My legs jerk into action, propelling me toward the door. As I reach it, a thought hits me. I pause with my hand on the handle. “What about my father?”

  “What about your father?”

  My stomach plummets as his face twists into a sneer. “Will he get h
is job back?”

  Baines’s voice is brittle. “I will personally see to it that your father never works here again. Or at any workshop in this city.”

  Slowly, I turn the handle and leave the room. The clamor of the workshop seeps through the corridor wall, disguising the sound of my footsteps as I stumble along, still reeling from the shock of my reprieve, and push open the double doors to the courtyard.

  The guard on the gate doesn’t reach for my arm to clock me out with the chip scanner. He doesn’t do anything at all. Just stares straight ahead as I walk past him out into the street.

  Pa doesn’t look up as I walk into the apartment. The room is dark, shutters half closed to block out the afternoon light. I’ve spent the past hour wandering the streets in a daze, trying to make sense of what happened, but it’s still too early for me to be home.

  “Nessie?”

  I pause, my hand still on the door, not wanting to face him and admit that I failed. The moment stretches out between us as I struggle to find the words that will bring his world crashing down.

  “No, Pa. It’s me.”

  “Rae?” He sits up in his chair, turning and peering into the gloom. His face falls as he sees me and he crumples back in the chair, fingers clutching at the thin red hair on his head. The small box containing my microchip sits on the table in front of him.

  “They found out.”

  “Yes.”

  I sit down opposite him, wanting to reach out and take his hand. But something holds me back.

  “Nessie? Rae? Do you have any?” My mother’s thin voice filters through from the bedroom. Pa’s eyes tighten.

  “It’s not as b—”

  The door slams open and Nessie walks in. Her face brightens when she sees me, then turns to a frown as she remembers that I shouldn’t be home at this time. She lets the door fall shut behind her and slowly walks to stand behind my father. “What happened?”

  I tell them about the inspection, how Jason had gotten caught in the machine, how they saw I was a woman. Pa only interrupts me once to ask if Jason was badly hurt.